


Pull Me Down

by dinglehoppersaplenty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tattooed Derek, Tattooed Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:11:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinglehoppersaplenty/pseuds/dinglehoppersaplenty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this is basically nothing but tattooed!Stiles and tattooed!Derek being sappy and having lots of sex on Valentine's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this on Valentine's Day, figuring i could bang it out by the end of the weekend. but now here we are, two months and 9.5k later. oops?
> 
> shoutout to moonybloom for being an awesome cheerleader/hand-holder throughout this whole thing!

Somehow, miraculously, Derek had managed to get Valentine’s Day off from both of his jobs, so Stiles figured his V-Day gift to Derek could be a whole day full of _Stiles_ , and decided it was worth skipping another day of school to accomplish this.

So instead of anything for class, he packed his bag with his laptop, Derek’s favorite flavor lube, a box of condoms, the rest of Stiles’ stash of weed, and a bag of Valentine’s-Day-themed Kisses (and maybe, like, a real present for Derek tucked underneath it all.) He left the house at the same time as his dad, got all the way to the school, and drove right past, pointing the Jeep towards the barely-three-story “historic downtown” of Beacon Hills.

On his way, he lit one of the three cigarettes left in his pack, hoping Derek wouldn’t mind either sharing some of his or leaving at some point to get more for Stiles. It could be his gift to Stiles, even, Stiles wasn’t picky.

He parked somewhere he wouldn’t get towed, and grabbed his backpack as he hopped out of the Jeep, the last half of his cigarette tucked between his lip ring and the corner of his mouth so he could use both hands. As he started walking the short distance to Derek’s apartment, he tipped his head back a bit, inhaling and exhaling around the cigarette as he wriggled both arms under the straps of his bag. It was strange to be in this part of town so early, he decided, as he finally plucked the cigarette from his mouth and watched where he was going. The sky was still blooming into dawn, the streets quiet but not completely dark, with streetlamps flickering out as Stiles approached them.

Stiles hadn’t seen downtown like this since last summer, when he’d first started fucking Derek. Back then, though, Stiles had only ever been just leaving the loft, not entering it. The streets seemed even quieter now though, like the cold snap they’d been having had made everyone stay in and hibernate.

He was glad there was no one out and about though; it was almost eight in the morning, and a seventeen-year-old miscreant seen hanging out and smoking near The Byrd, one of the local bars, was bound to raise some suspicion. He kept his head down out of habit as he finished his cigarette outside the door to Derek’s loft—right next door to one of the entrances to The Byrd—and wished he’d remembered his gloves.

He was glad he’d at least remembered his hat, though.

Finally, he tossed his cigarette into the street, and stamped his feet a little to try to get some feeling back into them as he tried the door. It was unlocked, as usual, and Stiles tried to be quiet as he climbed the stairs that always sounded like they were going to collapse under him.

He winced when the inside door creaked loudly into the morning stillness of Derek’s small apartment; going slower only seemed to make the creaking go on longer as he shut the door behind him, so he just cut it with a quick snap, shaking his head. He slipped his Converse off among the mess of shoes and boots inside the door, one hand on the wall for balance in the dim light of the apartment.

Stiles was as quiet as possible as he crept from the entryway, past the kitchen and down the hall toward Derek’s room, but it was more for Derek’s sake than any of his roommates’. Hopefully Erica was at one of her usual early shifts at the diner, and if he was even home, Isaac could sleep through a hurricane anyway. But Derek was almost definitely still asleep—on his complete days off, he tended to sleep until past noon, just because he could.

Derek’s room was fairly dark as Stiles gently pushed open the door, the blinds drawn shut and a blanket tacked up over them, but he could still make out the shape of Derek’s sleeping form on the bed in the grey light. But once Stiles had shut the door and his eyes given time to adjust to the low light, what he saw made him just stop for a second and _look_.

Derek was on his side, one arm thrown over his head to keep the pillow over his face in place; Stiles could make out the point of Derek’s stubbled jaw and the soft, slack curve of his bottom lip, a hint of Derek’s teeth. The sheets were drawn up over Derek’s hips, but the rest of him was bare, showing off the various tattoos that adorned his (completely unfairly toned) body.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Derek naked before. He’d seen Derek naked many, _many_ times, actually. Had traced over every spot of inked skin with his tongue, kissed nearly every inch of him besides—had done most of it in this very room, on that very bed. But he’d rarely seen Derek so…exposed. He almost looked vulnerable, like this.

Stiles had been entertaining thoughts of ‘wake up’ blow jobs, maybe even the thought of a morning fuck, but seeing Derek sleeping like that just made him want to curl up next to him and never leave.

So he proceeded to do just that.

After dropping his bag, hat, and outer layers at the foot of Derek’s bed, Stiles began shimmying out of his jeans, pulling his socks off along with them. Then slowly, carefully, he crawled his way into bed, hoping he wasn’t jostling Derek took much as he struggled to get himself under the covers. Then, finally, after tugging the blanket up to his shoulders, he settled on his side, facing Derek. He couldn’t see much of him, Derek’s face still covered by the pillow, but that was okay; he was content just to sit and watch the rise and fall of Derek’s tattooed ribs and let it lull him back to sleep.

But then came Derek’s voice, all throaty and thick with sleep. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school.”

Stiles jumped, but then grinned, wriggling closer. Their knees knocked together, and Stiles could feel the soft fabric of Derek’s favorite pair of sweatpants, so he didn’t feel bad as he threaded their knees together and tucked his cold toes under Derek’s calves. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Stiles said, curling his face into Derek’s chest and wrapping an arm around Derek’s waist, even as Derek made disgruntled noises.

“Cold,” he grunted. He let the pillow fall away from his face, moving his arm to pull the blankets up over both of them, and let his arm settle back over Stiles’ shoulders instead, pulling him even closer and crushing Stiles’ cold nose to his sternum.

“Warm,” Stiles mumbled back, readjusting his head so he was tucked more into Derek’s neck. They laid like that for a moment, Derek’s hand tracing lazy shapes over the knobs of Stiles’ spine over his t-shirt, while Stiles pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to Derek’s throat, his lip ring catching on Derek’s skin. It was nice, just listening to Derek’s heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Stiles was pretty sure he could fall back asleep, just like that, but there was something else he wanted to do more.

“Hey,” he said into the skin of Derek’s neck, not wanting to burst their little bubble of coziness.

Derek grunted to show he was listening.

“It’s been almost five minutes since I gave you your present and I still haven’t gotten my ‘thank you’ kiss.”

Derek’s responding laugh made the skin under Stiles’ lips shake a little.

Slowly, a bit clumsily, Derek tucked his face down while Stiles tipped his head up, and Derek kissed the corner of his mouth before they managed to bump their lips together. It was slow, unhurried, unusually chaste, and when they broke apart, Derek mumbled, “Thank you,” against his lips. Then he used the hand on the back of Stiles’ neck to tip his head back down into Derek’s neck.

“So you gave me yourself for Valentine’s Day?” he said, gently running his fingers across the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles shuddered against him, like they both knew would happen, and arched closer, twining their legs together until there was nowhere else for him to go, and why hadn’t he taken off his shirt before getting into bed, what was wrong with him?

Then he remembered Derek had asked a question. “Yeah,” opening his mouth wider than he needed to so he could bite down on Derek’s neck. Derek’s body tensed under him, the hand on the back of his neck digging in, and he rocked his half-hard dick against Stiles’ hip. Stiles scraped his teeth against Derek’s skin as he drew his lower jaw up to meet the upper, and then mouthed sloppily at the spot. “Could be this hickey instead, though,” he said, voice catching a little when Derek rocked into him again.

Derek groaned, and then suddenly Stiles was being pushed onto his back. “Stop that,” he said darkly, holding himself up with his fists on either side of Stiles’ head, the weight of his lower body settling over Stiles’ hip, straddling Stiles’ thigh. “If I wanted another mark on my neck, I’d get another tattoo.”

Stiles grinned up at him. “It’s cute how you think you’re any kind of intimidating with bedhead like that.”

Derek scowled, and Stiles frowned mockingly, until Derek rolled his eyes and ducked in for another kiss. As their mouths moved together, his weight shifted again, nudging Stiles’ leg out from under him until he was between Stiles’ legs. Out of habit, Stiles cradled him there, wrapping his legs around Derek’s and tucking his feet under Derek’s shins, and they both gasped into each other’s mouths when their dicks ground together through fabric. Stiles found his hands on Derek’s hips, mostly just holding on as Derek started up a slow, dirty rhythm, Derek falling to his elbows, and just kissing, kissing, _kissing_ Stiles, like he was content just to do that all morning.

Stiles had to break away, sucking in a huge breath, his nails accidentally scraping against Derek’s skin as his fingers dug in. “Fuck,” he hissed as Derek took that as his cue to speed his hips up. The friction between their stomachs made Stiles’ shirt ride up enough that they were skin on skin, sending more heat curling down Stiles’ spine.

“Derek,” he gasped into the space between their mouths. He reached down further with his hands, slipping them under Derek’s sweatpants to grab at Derek’s ass, press him even closer, push him into a faster rhythm. He made a pleased sound when he found that Derek was commando under the sweatpants, but then he hadn’t really expected him to be wearing underwear, either. Now, Derek’s ass was one of Stiles’ favorite things, right up there with Derek’s dick and Derek’s mouth and the vee between Derek’s hips, so Stiles groped it near-reverently, spreading his fingers out wide to try to cover the whole thing.

Derek was panting into Stiles’ neck now, forehead pressed against the mattress, the whole thing rocking a bit with the force of his movements. The blankets had slipped down to pool around his waist, and with the early morning light, Stiles could make out the bright colors in the sleeve down Derek’s right arm, the clenching of his stomach, the damp spot on his sweats around the head of his dick.

“C’mon,” Stiles panted, completely unembarrassed by how quickly he was approaching orgasm, “just a bit more—”

And then Derek bit down on the meat of Stiles’ shoulder, his own favorite place to leave his mark, and Stiles felt sparks course through his body, his hips pumping up up up into Derek’s until he grit his teeth and closed his eyes and _came_ , with a groan stuck in his throat like he’d been punched.

By the time he felt centered in his body again, Stiles realized that Derek had stopped moving against him, letting Stiles come down easy through the aftershocks of his orgasm because he knew Stiles got oversensitive. He kissed Derek’s shoulder in gratitude, then turned his head until his lips were grazing Derek’s ear. “Now you,” he whispered, squeezing at Derek’s ass, urging him into motion again.

Rather than get him moving his hips again, it made Derek hiss out a curse and rear back onto his knees. Stiles pouted, his hands having lost their grip on Derek’s glorious ass, but Derek didn’t really seem to care, shoving his sweats and Stiles’ boxer-briefs down until their dicks were free of the fabric, only to press them together again. He groaned when he found the come-slick groove of Stiles’ hip to grind against, and then fell forward, just barely catching himself with his fists, while his eyes roved all over Stiles’ body, like he couldn’t decide which part he liked best.

Derek was usually quiet when he came, and this time was no exception, his mouth going slack, eyes clenching shut. His entire head bowed forward, his forehead pressing against Stiles’ chest and hindering Stiles’ ability to see any of the great things happening below their waists, but that was okay; it’s not like this was going to be their last orgasm of the day. And either way, he could still feel the warm wet pulse of Derek’s come, the twitching of Derek’s dick, the erratic thrusting of his hips as he came, so it all worked out.

When Derek kept his head down for a few moments, panting humid air against Stiles’ half-bared chest, Stiles let his hands wander up Derek’s heaving back and into his hair, carding through the thick strands and probably making it even more of a mess.

“Don’t think this counts as your gift to me,” Stiles said after a moment, his voice loud enough to break the quiet cocoon they’d been wrapped in.

Derek snorted before lifting his head, his pierced eyebrow raised. “Oh, so only you can give orgasms as presents?” he said as he lifted himself up and grimaced at the mess between them.

“Excuse you, _I_ was your present for Valentine’s Day,” Stiles corrected, as Derek crawled off him, leaning over the side of the bed to grab one of his dirty shirts from the floor to clean them up with. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” he added, as he took the opportunity to pull off his shirt the rest of the way and then shimmy out of his ruined underwear. He tossed them to the side carelessly, just barely missing Derek.

He shot Stiles a glare, but it was kind of ruined by the way he was wiping at his junk with an old Arctic Monkeys shirt. “Maybe you should try to get your money back.”

“Sorry, no exchanges or refunds,” Stiles said, as Derek turned to give Stiles’ the same treatment, wiping the globs of come out of Stiles’ happy trail, off the point of the tattoo curved around his hip, off his mostly-soft dick. “You’re stuck with me.”

“I guess I’ll have to deal,” Derek sighed, dropping the shirt off the side of the bed. Stiles grinned cheekily, making Derek roll his eyes, but it was in that ‘I can’t believe I willingly spend time with this person’ kind of way, an expression that Stiles was very familiar with from many people.

But then Derek leaned down to kiss him, and it was then, when Stiles felt Derek smiling into the kiss, that he felt it—like his heart was swelling or his insides were twisting. It made his mouth drop open, not entirely sure what was going to come out of it, but thankfully Derek’s mouth was there to swallow anything that might spill out. He grabbed the back of Derek’s neck, pulled him down closer, keeping their mouths busy until the feeling settled.

Then, after a few last slow, chaste kisses, Derek flopped down, facefirst into the pillow next to Stiles’ head, his arm stretched over Stiles’ chest. It wasn’t exactly effective as any kind of restraint, but Stiles was pinned anyway.

“Are you gonna go back to sleep?” Stiles mock-whispered, craning his head a little to look at Derek while he nodded into the pillow. “Mmkay.”

And then it was quiet again, nothing but the sound of their breathing, and Stiles watched the steady rise and fall of Derek’s tattooed back until he fell asleep, too.

 

When he woke up the bed was moving.

He blinked a few times, smacked his lips once, then rolled over. Derek had turned over and was sitting up with his back against the wall, reaching for the coffee table by his bed that served as his nightstand and the pack of cigarettes there.

“Time s’it?” Stiles asked muzzily, as Derek opened the pack.

“Almost ten-thirty,” Derek replied, pulling out a cigarette before tossing the pack back onto the table and reaching for his lighter.

There were probably at least half a dozen lighters floating around loft, in various locations and for various purposes, but Derek only ever seemed to use the same one. It was just a plain red Bic, beat all to hell and back, and Stiles was honestly surprised it still had any fluid left in it.

It took a couple of tries, since the childproofing always stuck for a second, but then it sparked, and Stiles watched the tip of Derek’s cigarette turn to ash before watching Derek’s cheeks hollow as he sucked on the other end. But then that led to Stiles thinking about Derek sucking on other things, which just made him all hot and bothered when nothing was going to happen until Derek at least finished his cigarette.

“You need to stop smoking,” Stiles announced, pulling the covers up to his ribs as he turned onto his side, propping his head up on his fist.

Derek said nothing, raising an eyebrow and exhaling smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“Seriously, it’s giving me a complex. I can’t get turned on every time you light up, it’s ridiculous.”

He still didn’t say anything, but the corners of his mouth quirked up in a smug smile. Then slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on Stiles the whole time, he took another drag.

“Asshole,” Stiles said, reaching up and plucking the cigarette from his fingers, and Derek’s smile turned wide and wicked and wolfish.

He could feel Derek’s eyes on him as he brought the cigarette to his lips and took a drag, and he let his own smug smirk curl his lips. He held the cigarette out for Derek to take back, but instead of taking it with his fingers, Derek leaned down, mouth parted invitingly. Stiles carefully closed the distance between Derek and the filter, unable to help licking his own lips when Derek’s brushed his fingers.

Then Derek had the filter between his teeth and was pulling away, leaning back against the wall with hooded eyes still on Stiles.

Stiles was about two seconds away from saying fuck it and going for the waist of Derek’s sweats, his cigarette be damned, when Derek asked, “You hungry?”

Stiles paused, tried to see where he’d dumped his backpack without actually moving. “I brought food,” he said, waving vaguely at the end of the bed. Derek raised an eyebrow, and then, upon realizing that Stiles wasn’t going to move unless he was dragged, rolled his eyes and held the cigarette out for Stiles to take, already halfway to the other end of the bed to grab Stiles’ bag.

“Be gentle, my baby’s in there,” Stiles said, taking the cig and then taking another drag as he admired the view of Derek leaning over the end of the bed.

“Jesus, did you think we were just gonna fuck all day?” Derek said, voice a little muffled, and then the box of condoms flew through the air, hitting Stiles in the hip before bouncing behind him.

“Why, afraid you couldn’t keep up, old man?” Stiles said, poking Derek’s thigh with his toes as he stretched to grab the ashtray from his nightstand.

When Derek didn’t offer any kind of rebuttal, Stiles frowned. He put the cigarette in the ashtray and the ashtray on Derek’s nightstand, then pushed himself up into a sitting position, asking, “You okay down there?”

Derek wordlessly held up a box, wrapped in last week’s newspaper with ‘DEREK’ scrawled with Sharpie across the top in Stiles’ handwriting.

“Oh. That.”

Derek pushed himself up to sit facing Stiles, his eyebrow raised in a silent request for further explanation.

“It’s dumb,” Stiles said, reaching for it, but Derek held it away. “It’s just—a stupid—thing.” He stopped reaching, Derek’s arms too long and Stiles not really feeling like moving all that much. “It’s a Valentine’s present, okay?”

Derek’s face lit up with a bright smile. “Really?” he said, looking down at the box, now in his lap.

“Well—yeah. I mean, it’s not much—”

Stiles cut off at the sound of ripping paper, Derek’s fingers digging into the poor-man’s wrapping. He watched for a second, but then decided he really didn’t want to see Derek’s face for this, so he reached back over for the cigarette, just barely still burning. He took a nervous drag, eyes carefully on his own blanket-covered knees, as he listened to Derek toss the wrapping aside and open the box. He heard his own heart beat once, twice, and then a soft, “Stiles.”

“It’s stupid,” he said pre-emptively, not looking up, tapping the cigarette against the rim of the ashtray, “I wasn’t even sure if I was gonna give it to you, I just—”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek said again, and this time Stiles looked up.

Derek was smiling, soft and small. He quirked an eyebrow as he read the title of the mix CD he held in one hand. “‘Songs I Played At Work and Thought of You.’”

“I told you it was stupid,” Stiles mumbled, scrubbing a hand through the hair on the back of his head.

There was a tiny, locally owned radio station in Beacon Hills that Stiles had managed to get a job at the summer before junior year. At first he’d just been an assistant, but by spring break he’d managed to convince his boss to give him a slot, and by the time his senior year had started, he’d gotten a weekly show. Just a couple of months ago his boss had given him two three-hour slots every Tuesday and Thursday, and if all went well, Stiles would have three hours to himself every weekday in the summer.

It was a nice gig, where Stiles got to play and say whatever he wanted, uncensored. He had a loyal fanbase of listeners that he liked to joke consisted only of his dad and Scott—and maybe even Derek—but he knew most of the rest of his friends caught his show when they could, and the numbers didn’t lie, especially when it included online listeners.

“These are all love songs,” Derek pointed out after a moment of silence, eyes running down the tracklist Stiles had oh-so-helpfully included.

“Not all of them!” he protested, and when Derek raised his eyebrow, still scanning the list, he added, “Some of them are _sex_ songs.”

Derek snorted, and then, like Stiles hadn’t even spoken, added, “Some of these are really fucking _sappy_ love songs.”

“Yeah, well.” He looked down, taking one last drag before stubbing the cigarette out, making sure to save the small amount left, in case Derek wanted to finish it later. “Fuck me for being romantic, I guess,” he said as he exhaled smoke, setting the ashtray back on Derek’s nightstand. “Stop making me fall in love with you, I’m sure the songs would get less sappy.”

It was so quiet, for a second Stiles was pretty sure he could hear the rapid beat of his own heart pumping through his veins. Then Derek cleared his throat, but his hand landed on Stiles’ ankle, warm even through the blankets. “And then, these dates on the side here,” he said, nodding to indicate the third column, after title and artist.

Stiles swallowed, licked his lips. “When I played them, yeah.”

Derek’s head slowly swayed up and down, the ghost of a nod. Stiles knew he would be familiar with most, if not all of the songs—even though he was a bit of a music snob, in an endearing kind of way—but Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek would know what those songs were saying, and more importantly, _when_ they were saying it.

Because he may be only just now be telling Derek he’s in love with him, but he’s really been telling him since they met.

“Stiles,” Derek said again. He was shaking his head now, eyes darting all over the list.

Stiles pulled more of the covers towards him, until they were bunched up under his armpits. He wished he’d put on some clothes for this. “You don’t have to actually listen to it, I know you don’t always like my music, I just thought you should know—”

He was cut off when Derek’ lips met his, off-center and perfect, once Stiles turned into it. Derek pulled back just enough to murmur, “I love it,” against his mouth, before he was kissing him again.

Things were just getting interesting, Derek beginning to push him onto his back, but when the box fell out of his lap, it rattled, drawing Derek’s attention back. He picked it up, finally looking under the mix CD, and found a simple, red, Bic lighter.

“What’s this?” Derek said, picking it up and flicking it on and off, once, twice.

“Uh, kind of a backup plan?” He pulled Derek’s arm, trying to get his mouth back on his. “In case you didn’t like the CD. But you do, so.”

“You were gonna give me a lighter for Valentine’s Day?” Derek said, eyebrows set in a judgmental look.

“It was practical,” Stiles said, as Derek continued fiddling with the lighter. “You’re always using that other one, I thought it might be running out of fluid soon.”

Derek watched the flame as he flicked the lighter on and off one last time, then dragged his eyes over to Stiles, a serious look on his face. “Do you know why I always use that other one?”

Stiles shook his head.

“I bought it a couple of days after we met,” Derek said, eyes going back to the lighter as he flicked it on again. He kept his thumb pressed down, the flame burning tall. “I’d had your show on in the car when I went to go get cigarettes, and grabbed it last second.” He lifted his thumb, catching Stiles’ eyes. “It reminded me of you, that hoodie you were wearing when we met.”

“You listened to my show that day?” Stiles said, knowing that one of the songs on his mix had that date attached to it—sure, it was “The Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang, but still. He’d been thinking about Derek when he played it.

“I’ve listened to your show every day since you told me about it.”

And Stiles just had to stop for a second at that. He’d been—hoping, sure, that Derek was listening, had always been listening, but it was…strange to hear him say it out loud. To know that he’d listened to every one of the songs Stiles had every played for him—not just the “I love you” ones, but the “please don’t leave me” ones that’d he’d played when things had gotten rough last fall—to know that Derek had heard them, even if it wasn’t explicitly stated, made Stiles just—stop.

He was drawn out of his stupor when Derek’s lips pressed against his again, Stiles just barely responding before Derek was pulling back. “Thank you,” Derek said, before pressing another kiss against Stiles’ mostly slack mouth.

“You’re welcome,” he said automatically, before his thoughts caught up with what Derek had said about the lighter. “Wait,” he said, planting a hand on Derek’s chest, pushing him back from where he’d been kissing his way down Stiles’ neck. “You bought that lighter because it reminded you of me?”

Derek nodded, leaning back in when Stiles’ hand went slack against his chest, mouth going for Stiles’ pulse point.

“Does it—” He broke off into a moan when Derek nuzzled his way down to Stiles’ shoulder and, from the slight twinge that Stiles’ felt, the mark he’d left there. Stiles found his hand digging into Derek’s chest, his mouth slack, and then remembered he was saying something. He pushed Derek back, enough for Derek to look at him with an open mouth and hooded eyes, almost enough for Stiles to forget his intentions. Stiles licked his lips, watched Derek watch the action.

When Stiles didn’t say anything for a second, pretty sure he was going to sound stupid, Derek dragged his eyes from Stiles’ mouth to Stiles’ eyes. “It still reminds me of you,” he said, and Stiles felt that stupid fluttering, squirming feeling in his chest again.

“What a fucking sap,” he said, pulling Derek in, smiling into the kiss. He let Derek push him back, expecting Derek to settle on top of him, but instead, Derek pulled back.

As Stiles made grabby hands, Derek said, “Hang on,” scrambling for the CD that had fallen onto the bed somewhere, and, like he had a second thought for it, the lighter.

“What’re you—seriously?” Stiles said, as he watched Derek go over to his stereo, popping the CD in and pressing [play](http://8tracks.com/dinglehoppersaplenty/songs-i-played-at-work-and-thought-of-you). As the opening notes of the first track played, Stiles groaned, “You’re ridiculous.”

Derek just shot him a shit-eating grin, tossing his new lighter onto the nightstand next to the old one before his hands went for his waistband, which Stiles was definitely all for. Then Derek paused, his sweats halfway down his ass, low enough that you could see the forest his happy trail disappeared into, and looked up at Stiles. “My gift isn’t as good as yours,” he said, and Stiles wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. He’d figured they’d have another round of sex before they got to Derek’s gift, if Derek even had one—which was completely unnecessary, really, Stiles’ gift wasn’t even that good.

“Is it because I don’t get to unwrap it?” Stiles asked, reaching for Derek and adding, “Because there’s still time, I can unwrap it the rest of the way.”

“My gift isn’t my dick,” Derek said, scowling a little, and the fact that he looked almost seriously put out about it was the only thing that stopped Stiles from pouting mockingly.

When Derek didn’t say anything for a moment, Stiles prompted slowly, “…Then what is it?”

And then Derek huffed and pushed his pants the rest of the way down.

Stiles stared for a minute.

His eyes immediately went to Derek’s cock, because even though he’d seen Derek naked plenty of times by now, he still liked to appreciate the familiar curves and lines of it, the way it looked when he was half-hard, the frame of Derek’s pubic hair, the strong lines of his hips, the dark lines of the gun tattoo curving around them to point straight at it. It was a nice dick, okay?

But obviously it wasn’t what Derek wanted Stiles to look at, since his dick, while beautiful, was the same as always. Stiles let his eyes trace over the muscles of Derek’s thighs, the bright edges of his side tattoo the bled into his hip, the strong black lines that circled the meat of his right thigh, the white gauze over a new tattoo on the left one—

Stiles stopped, his vision suddenly zeroing in the stretch of white gauze. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it—how had he not noticed?

“Was that there last night?”

Derek huffed through his nose, almost a laugh. “Yeah, I got it yesterday, after my shift.”

“How—why didn’t you tell me you were getting a new one? Why was I not aware? How did I not see it last night?”

They both ignored how Stiles sounded increasingly hysterical; Derek just shrugged. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

And now that he thought about it, Derek had been favoring his right side last night, and when Stiles had blown him on the couch, one last time before he had to leave to make curfew, Derek had still had his jeans on, hadn’t taken them off all night.

“Well, color me surprised, then, Jesus,” Stiles said, sitting up, pushing off the blankets and moving closer to the edge of the bed. “C’mon, let’s see it,” he said, beckoning, and Derek laughed and moved in too, until Stiles’ grabby hands caught hold of one of Derek’s knees and dragged him closer, making him stumble into the side of the bed.

Stiles’ hands were already starting to peel back the tape when he paused. “It’s—this is cool to take off, right? It’s been long enough?”

“It’s fine,” Derek assured him, rolling his eyes a little. “Just go for it.”

Stiles couldn’t help but grin to himself as he started working on the rest of the tape, slow but steady. He loved when Derek got a new tattoo; it was exciting, to have new lines to memorize. And there was definitely a certain appeal to the way Derek’s eyes would go dark whenever Stiles got near a new one, when it was still semi-raw and a little painful.

“So what’s so special—” He stopped, the tattoo halfway visible, because that was all he needed to see to know what it was. “Oh my god.”

Derek didn’t even have time to respond before Stiles was tearing the rest of the bandage off, not caring about Derek’s “ow, Jesus,” or where the bandage even ended up.

Because, sitting right in front of him on Derek’s leg, was a fox.

It was—a thing, that Stiles had, for foxes. Ever since he was a kid, and had been too curious for his own good, and smart enough to get away with it sometimes. His mother had taken to calling him her little fox, in Polish, her mouth bending much easier around the words than Stiles’ small mouth ever could.

He and Scott had watched The Fox and the Hound probably 800 times when they were kids, and whenever they would play, Stiles always called Tod. He’d had fox posters and figurines and was constantly checking out books on them at the library.

When his mother had died, his affection for them had waned a bit. (If you could call tearing his posters up and throwing away all his figurines “waning interest.”) But he still loved them, just as much as he still loved his mom; enough that when he’d first seen Derek’s wolf-themed side piece, he’d snorted a little.

“Wolves and foxes don’t get along,” he said, echoing the words he’d said that night, framing the new tattoo with his hands, careful not to touch the still-healing ink; it was still a little pink around the edges, a little shiny.

“Good thing we’re human, then,” Derek said quietly, and Stiles looked up to catch his eye.

“Derek,” he said seriously, because this was Very Serious. Sure, it was a relatively small piece—about the size of Stiles' palm—compared to a lot of Derek’s other pieces, and Derek could get it covered up, someday, if he wanted, but he may as well have gotten Stiles’ name tattooed on him.

Derek shrugged. “I wanted to.”

Stiles shook his head, looking back down at the fox. “You’re crazy,” he muttered. “Fucking—ridiculous.” He outlined the shape of it with his fingers, still careful not to touch it. “How could you think this wasn’t as good a gift?”

He felt Derek shrug again. “It’s a tattoo, on _my_ body.”

And Stiles could kind of see his point, but. “But it’s _this_ tattoo on your body.” He looked back up at Derek’s face. “It’s _me_. On your _body_.” He briefly looked back at the tattoo, then Derek’s face. “ _Forever_.”

Stiles watched the movement of Derek’s jaw as it clenched, his throat as he swallowed, his mouth as it parted to say, “That’s kind of how long I plan on being in love with you, so.”

And Stiles didn’t really know what to do with that, other than reach up and pull Derek’s face into his, kissing him thoroughly.

“Derek,” he whispered, smearing it against Derek’s mouth as Derek pressed closer, pushing him back into the bed. “ _Derek_.”

Derek didn’t say anything back, just nodded, still trying to kiss him as he settled on top of him, straddling one of Stiles’ legs with his own. Stiles’ hands roved all over Derek, dragging over his skin, pulling him in until there was nowhere for him to go.

Stiles had never been more glad for nudity than at that moment. It felt like he was burning up, and everywhere Derek pressed against him just burned hotter. And still, he wanted Derek closer, he—he needed—he _needed_ —

“Fuck me,” he panted into Derek’s mouth, hands moving to Derek’s ass to grope him, shoving their hips together, hardening dicks trapped between them, “c’mon, fuck me—”

And with that, Derek growled, nipping at Stiles’ jawbone before lifting himself up and reaching for the almost-empty bottle of lube on the nightstand. Stiles probably made the endeavor more difficult by not letting him get very far, keeping his hands tight on Derek’s hips to grind them together, reaching up to bite at Derek’s jaw, his neck, his chest.

“Fuck, just—” Suddenly Derek’s hand was on his chest, pushing him into the bed. He was panting, but there was still some bite in his voice as he ordered, “Stay still.”

Stiles pouted, but waited until Derek had grabbed the lube to buck his hips into Derek’s. He smirked when it made Derek glare.

And then suddenly Derek was moving away from him, off him completely, and Stiles was unashamed of the fact that he made a whining noise. It was _cold_ without Derek. But then Derek was back, manhandling Stiles until he’d turned him over onto his stomach, then pressed in all along Stiles’ back, his cock hard and teasing against Stiles’ ass.

“Like this, yeah?” Derek asked, his breath hot on Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles groaned, nodding into the pillow and arching back into the press of Derek’s body.

Derek huffed something that may have been a laugh into the back of Stiles’ neck, making him shudder a little, and then pulled back again. Stiles didn’t whine again, but it was a near thing.

But he knew what was coming next, and there was a breathless, silent moment in between one song and the next, where Stiles heard the snap of a cap, loud in the sudden quiet. Then the music started again, Derek’s dry hand on his ass, spreading him open, and Stiles gasped when he felt Derek’s slick finger at his hole.

“Fuck,” he hissed, leaning into it, hoping that Derek wouldn’t take his time for once. He really didn’t care how desperate it made him look; he needed Derek in him _yesterday_. “C’mon,” he urged, rising up a little onto his knees and elbows to give him some leverage to push back against Derek.

Derek gave him what he needed, pushing his finger deep into Stiles, down to the last knuckle. Stiles made a wordless noise at the feeling, his hands flexing and clenching into the sheets as he slumped back down.

“I gotcha, I gotcha,” Derek whispered over Stiles’ noise, thrusting his finger in and out slowly as his other hand left Stiles’ ass, reaching for the lube. He uncapped it, drizzling it straight onto Stiles’ hole; the cold of it made Stiles jerk and hiss. “Sorry,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss into the space between Stiles’ shoulder blades.

“S’fine,” Stiles panted, rocking his hips back into Derek, “just hurry up, c’mon.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Derek said, but he pushed back in with two fingers this time, and Stiles groaned at the stretch, relishing it as Derek began fingering him in earnest.

“Patience can—” Stiles broke off into a moan, when Derek began twisting on his thrusts. “ _Fuck_.”

Derek chuckled, then leaned down over Stiles, still fucking into him with his fingers, his dick teasing against Stiles’ ass, his entire body a close, humid heat against Stiles. “I could make you come just from this,” Derek said, considering, his lips dragging against the back of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles whimpered.

Derek let out a laugh, deep and dirty, before pulling back again, pushing in a third finger as he did so.

They both knew he could make Stiles come just from his fingers; he’d done it last month. But that wasn’t what Stiles wanted, not at all. “Derek, c’mon,” he panted, once he’d gotten his breath back for a second; he reached back blindly, hoping to touch some part of Derek, urge him back down until his body covered Stiles’. “Want—want _you_ , c’mon.”

And for once, instead of working Stiles over until he was a babbling, incoherent mess before sliding in, Derek obliged Stiles, pulling his fingers out and lurching for the condom box, still on the bed from when he’d thrown it earlier. He fumbled with it, his one hand slick, managing to get into one corner and yanking out the entire strip.

Stiles let his head fall to the pillow, huffing out a sigh as he wriggled a little, grinding down to get a little friction, as he heard Derek working at the condom wrapper just under the music.

“Any time,” Stiles panted, looking over his shoulder to see Derek finally just put his teeth to the corner of one, tearing it open. “Don’t mind me; I’ll just wait here.”

“Fuck you,” Derek said without heat, quickly rolling the condom on.

“I thought that’s what we were trying to do,” Stiles said with a smirk as Derek slicked himself up with fresh lube, Derek’s eyes fluttering at the feel.

Stiles got his ass lightly swatted for that; he yelped, flinching a little, but then Derek stilled him by grabbing his thigh with one hand, the other around his dick to guide himself into Stiles.

“Shit,” Stiles hissed, when he felt the blunt pressure of Derek’s dick start to press into him, and he arched back into it. “Fuck, yes—”

In one smooth, solid stroke, Derek buried himself in Stiles’ ass, hot and thick and too much and not enough. “Fuck,” Derek breathed, echoing Stiles’ thoughts, and then when Stiles rocked back into it: “ _Fuck_.”

He braced his hands on Stiles’ sides, curving around his ribs, as he started fucking into him hard and fast, just barely out of sync with the music playing around them. His legs were spread wide to get the proper leverage, pushing Stiles’ apart even further; Stiles found himself clawing at the sheets, pressing his head into the pillow, trying to get some sort of leverage to push back into him, but there was none to be found.

He didn’t even realize he was whining until Derek bent down, bracing himself on one elbow, the other skimming up and down Stiles’ side, to shush him in between kissing his shoulder blade, the back of his neck, the moles under his ear. “I got you,” Derek said breathlessly, nipping at Stiles’ earlobe, “it’s okay, I got you.”

Stiles let out a broken-sounding noise, feeling like he was about to fly apart.

The track changed then, the fast track giving way to one with a slow, dirty bass line. Derek stopped thrusting, panting heavily, and then pulled back again, eliciting another whining noise from Stiles. His weight shifted, knees knocking into Stiles’ legs as he readjusted, and then he was straddling Stiles, working his dick back into Stiles with slow, deep thrusts. Once he was fully seated again, he fell forward, the angle of him inside Stiles changing enough to make Stiles cry out. Then he worked one arm under Stiles, his chest pressed all along Stiles’ back, his weight heavy and grounding. His other hand came up to grip Stiles’ chin, turning his head even further, and Stiles tried the best he could to return Derek’s kisses as Derek started grinding into him, matching the beat _._

Then Derek pulled back, his hand leaving Stiles’ face to travel down Stiles’ arm to his hand; Stiles unclenched his hand from the sheets just long enough for Derek to thread their fingers together.

Stiles thought he’d gotten out of being reduced to an incoherent mess, but he should have remembered it was Derek’s favorite thing to do with him. As it was, he was entirely unprepared for Derek to just keep up the slow grind, pressing against all the right spots inside him. Derek’s body was a cage around him, and their combined weight grinding Stiles’ dick into the mattress provided just enough friction to keep him on edge—just enough to drive him _crazy_. It felt like all the blood in his body had turned to magma, thick and slow and burning, burning, burning.

“Derek,” he panted, and Derek grunted, nosing at Stiles’ temple. “Derek, please, _please_ —”

“Not yet,” he said, his bottom lip dragging on Stiles’ cheekbone; his next thrust was hard and deep, eliciting a sharp noise from Stiles. Then, on the next similar thrust, he bit down on his favorite spot on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles cried out, clenching his eyes shut, and he could feel Derek’s smirk against sweat-sticky skin.

“I— _ngh_ —hate you,” Stiles managed to get out.

“No you don’t,” Derek said easily, pushing himself up as the song drew to a close. “You _love_ me.”

And Stiles really couldn’t deny that, so he stayed quiet as Derek hauled his hips up off the bed, forcing Stiles to support himself on shaking arms, knees slipping a little. Then Derek began fucking into him again, hard and fast enough to knock Stiles down to his elbows. The smacking sound of their skin echoed obscenely against the strains of the folk song that replaced the previous one, and Stiles let himself fall the rest of the way down, pressing his face into the mattress with a groan. Derek’s hips would stutter wildly every once in a while, sending his hands slipping on Stiles’ waist, but he kept up the pace even as he readjusted his grip.

It was fucking _good_ , is what it was, enough to send Stiles’ scrambling to get a hand around his dick. He just needed—a little—more—

But then Derek’s hand was in his hair, tugging, insistently enough to get Stiles to get his hands under himself again. He pushed himself up, arms shaking, and then Derek’s arm came around him, hooking over his shoulder and his palm spreading wide over Stiles’ chest. Stiles slumped into the hold, let Derek pull him the rest of the way up; he released his grip on Stiles’ hair to wrap his arm around Stiles’ waist, hand slipping into a tight rhythm around Stiles’ dick.

“Shit—Derek,” Stiles wheezed, one hand coming up to clutch at Derek’s on his chest, the other gripping uselessly at Derek’s thigh. “ _Derek_ —”

And then Derek caught a rhythm that matched the song, and Stiles felt like suddenly everything fell into place—his body fitting into Derek’s, his heart thumping, the music pulsing around them, and suddenly his veins turned white hot. He cried out, his voice discordant against the two girls singing, as Derek thrust even harder—

Stiles was gonna fly _apart_ —

“Please, Derek—I need— _please_ —” Stiles babbled, not even sure what he was asking for—he needed just that _little bit more_ , and he would be there, he could _come_.

“C’mon, babe,” Derek murmured, as Stiles’ head lolled back onto Derek’s shoulder, eyes slipping closed. Stiles was completely surrounded by Derek, all of the points he was touching Stiles like relays, sending the pleasure circuiting around and through and constant. Then his teeth were suddenly sharp in the meat of Stiles’ shoulder, his tongue hot and wet as he sucked on the skin—

There was a long, breathless moment, with his fingernails digging into Derek’s wrist, his thigh, while the chorus soared around them and Derek’s hips pressed in in _in_ ; then Stiles shattered into white hot bliss.

Derek’s hips stuttered behind him while Stiles’ body clenched and unclenched, and he couldn’t get enough air. He was only vaguely aware of the sound escaping from his own mouth, sounding like it was ripped from him, too focused on the waves of pleasure crashing through him as he spilled into Derek’s loose fist.

As he came back into himself, he felt weak, shaky, tired—so he slumped even more, hanging from Derek’s arm barred across his chest. Derek’s hips were moving slowly now, jolting and slightly over-stimulating, pushing sharp noises out of Stiles, until they finally stilled.

The moment was surprisingly quiet, the last song fading out before the first song faded in, and Stiles let his eyes flutter open. Then Derek breathed, “Fuck,” and Stiles just nodded dumbly, his mouth wide and panting. Derek gently lowered him back to the bed, and Stiles groaned, his eyes slipping closed again as he melted into the sheets.

He made vague protesting noises as Derek pulled out and backed away, not only because it jostled the bed, but it left him empty. And _cold_. Who knew sweat could actually do its job?

“Calm down,” Derek said behind him, his voice a little strained. Stiles had half a mind to perk up and check what was happening over his shoulder—shouldn’t Derek being chasing an orgasm of some kind?—but decided he was too lazy for that.

Then he heard the familiar sound of a condom hitting the trash can, and he squinted one eye open in confusion. “Did you come?” he slurred, the pillow half-covering his mouth not helping any.

When Stiles didn’t really hear anything but the gospel-inspired chorus playing from the stereo, he finally got the energy to look back over his shoulder, see what Derek was up to.

Derek was just kneeling there behind him, eyes closed as he slowly wiped his hands on one of his undershirts. He was still breathing heavily. A quick glance down at Derek’s dick revealed that while it was still a bit pink, it was going soft, so he _had_ come at some point, apparently. Stiles was a bit disappointed to have not seen another of Derek’s orgasms, but then his gaze drifted over to Derek’s thigh—or more specifically, his new tattoo.

It was kind of hard to believe, that Derek had gotten something like that. Derek had been—hinting, lately, that he felt something like that, when he would say things like “we should switch off families every other Christmas, that was fucking exhausting,” or “my cousin’s wedding is in the fall, I marked you down for chicken,” or “if Scott is going to be godfather, they can’t call him ‘Uncle Scott,’ no way, he doesn’t get _both_ titles.” It had been driving Stiles _nuts_ , not sure how serious Derek was being about these things, but _this_. This was tangible, physical proof that Derek not only loved him, which Stiles had been like, ninety-seven percent sure on anyway, but that he also intended to _stay_ with Stiles.

But then, Stiles couldn’t really say anything without it coming out like a joke, even when he really meant it, so he supposed it was only fair.

So he tried really hard—lifted his head and everything—to sound sincere when he said, “I love you.”

Derek opened his eyes in surprise, but then his face softened into a—a _look_. Stiles had seen it before, but usually in brief glimpses when Derek didn’t think Stiles, or anyone else for that matter, was looking. If you’d asked Stiles about it earlier, he would have called it fond, but it was probably something closer to… _in love_.

Then Derek smirked, the soft curves of his smile turning sharp and mischievous as he dropped the shirt. Stiles watched him warily as he leaned down, cupping Stiles’ face. His eyes locked on Stiles’, focused and intense, and Stiles’ breath caught in his lungs, the traitor.

“I know.”

Stiles’ eyes widened.

“Did you just Han Solo me?” he said, even as Derek pressed their lips together. Derek pulled back, rolling his eyes a little but also smiling as he pushed himself off the bed. “You’re such a nerd,” Stiles added, kicking out at him, but then. Stiles supposed he was a bit of a nerd too.

Derek didn’t say anything, instead choosing to lift his arms above his head, arching his back as he stretched. Stiles caught a faint popping sound, and then Derek sighed loudly as he dropped his arms back down, his gaze dropping to the floor as well.

“Whatcha doin’?” Stiles asked, as Derek bent over, picking through some of the clothes on the floor. He sniffed at a pair of black jeans, then tossed them back to the floor.

“Getting dressed,” Derek said absently, picking up another pair of black jeans that looked almost exactly the same as the first pair. This one passed the sniff check, and he started pulling them on.

“I can see that,” Stiles said flatly, tucking his arms under the pillow, getting comfy. He watched as Derek covered up most of the rest of his tattoos with a long-sleeved shirt. “Why?”

“I’m hungry,” Derek shrugged, grabbing his wallet and phone from the nightstand. “Gonna go get some food.”

“I told you I br—”

He fell silent when Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “A bag of Hershey Kisses is not real food, babe,” he said, pocketing his cigarettes and lighter as well.

“Pssh,” Stiles mumbled, shutting his eyes and nuzzling into the pillow. “Says you.”

“Says real people,” Derek said, his voice travelling away from Stiles. It wasn’t until Gwen Stefani abruptly stopped crooning that Stiles realized he must have gone back over to his stereo. With one eye, he watched Derek take the CD out and slip it back into its case. Then Derek turned to look back at Stiles, arching an eyebrow. “I take it you’re not coming.”

“I don’t even know how you’re _standing_ right now,” Stiles whined, burrowing a little further into the bed. “I’m _exhausted_.”

“What time did you go to sleep last night?” Derek asked, walking back over to the bed.

Stiles purred a little when Derek’s hand ran through his hair, then replied, slowly. “I’unno. Maybe…four-thirty? Five?”

He could practically hear Derek roll his eyes. “No fucking wonder, then.” He yanked the covers over from where’d they’d fallen off to the side, pulling them mostly over Stiles’ body. “You want me to bring you something back?”

“A pack of cigarettes,” he said, partly just to be a shit, but also partly because he actually needed some. Derek snorted, and Stiles sighed. “You know what I like,” he said with a weak shrug, already halfway back to sleep.

Derek didn’t say anything, so Stiles assumed he nodded; he didn’t feel like opening his eyes to find out. Then Derek’s hand was on his shoulder, bracing himself as he leaned in to kiss Stiles’ temple. “Love you,” Derek said, evenly, easily, and Stiles couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll be back soon,” he added as he straightened.

“Stay warm,” Stiles mumbled as Derek quietly stepped out of the room, his footsteps quickly fading down the hall. He bet if he listened hard enough, he could hear Derek putting on his boots and leather jacket, but he was so sleepy...

He may or may not have still been smiling as he slipped off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> so i also couldn't help but actually make the mix cd stiles made for derek?? if you're interested, maybe want to listen along, it can be found [here](http://dinglehoppersaplenty.tumblr.com/post/84365776519/)!


End file.
